


Cognitive Dissonance

by Jaysop



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emetophilia, Fluff, Hannigram - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Sickfic, Vomiting, Will Knows, comforting!Hannibal, migraines, sick!will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4173018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaysop/pseuds/Jaysop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will drives to Hannibal’s home to confront him about his growing suspicions. Hannibal is cautiously optimistic that he will persuade Will towards acceptance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cognitive Dissonance

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear readers :)
> 
> I know it’s been a little while again and for that I apologize. 
> 
> So… I started writing this a few months ago with all the best intentions of it being complete sickfic fluff but I also wanted to write about Will finding out, maybe somewhat early in his relationship with Hannibal, and the repercussions of that. These two ideas came together and I ended up with a little more angst than fluff in the end. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it <3

***

Trees rushed past him, a dark blur in his peripheral vision. They bent around the car as he pushed the engine to its limit, foot heavy on the pedal as their branches curled down like skeletal arms. All six cylinders growled as Will shifted the car into gear. He knew every turn and every rise and valley of this road as if it was burned into his delicate gray matter, as familiar as the curves of his lover’s body.

Black clouds rolled in. The coming storm was imminent. Will held onto the hope that he could somehow out run it. He fooled himself as he drove headlong and fast into the direct center of the growing unrest that darkened the sky. The lovely curves of the road turned harsh and uncaring. The wind whipped up pushing the little car around like a toy, and Will had to place both hands up on the wheel just to keep from running off the road.

Even here he felt the sting of betrayal, the familiar path looming like an oil painting, dark and oppressive. He could almost hear Hannibal’s voice in his head, quiet but somehow commanding, telling him that he was being reckless, telling him that he was being irrational. The voice of reason.

But this was the most rational Will had felt in a long time.

Rational. Stable. Sane. Words Will grasped at, words he tried to convince himself with. It didn’t help the turmoil that raged inside him now. The thin line between love and hate had become irrevocably blurred. Thoughts buzzed inside his head, made him want to beat his fists against the steering wheel, made him want to scream through the silence. Will swallowed hard, the dreadful truth still turning his stomach, a dull ache beginning to blossom behind his eyes.

He gripped the wheel tight, fingernails leaving crescent shaped impressions in the soft vinyl. The reflection of passing street lights washed over him in intervals streaking yellow lines across his glasses that had trailed too far down his nose. He caught his reflection for a brief moment in the rear view. It flashed back at him full of fury and terrible sadness.

The rain came as if on cue, coming down in sheets across the windshield, falling too hard even after he flicked the wipers on high. He had to shrug his shoulders and hunch forward just to barely make out the double yellow line. It disappeared for a breath and a heartbeat between the swipe of the wiper blades.

Reckless. Completely Reckless behavior. Blatantly disregarding your own well being. Your own _worth_.

His head throbbed; the words making him grimace. The beginnings of a migraine curled its pointed fingers into his eye sockets, but through the pain he could still hear Hannibal’s voice in his head. He could still see his expression, soft and subtle as it spread across his features. It looked like concern, like genuine affection, and even when it was imaginary it still deceived him. It still made him long for the simple comfort of the other. The growing pain in his head softened his resolve further. It took the edge off his anger, made him questions his own intentions, and made him sick to his stomach.

Lightning illuminated the horizon, a bright crack that split the darkened sky down the middle. The light left disorienting trails in front of Will’s eyes. He began to feel bile rising in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard against it. The thunder that followed ripped into his head. With a jerking motion he pulled off onto the soft shoulder, the car fishtailing as it skidded to a stop in the mud.

There was a brief moment where everything was incredibly still, as if time was frozen inside a single breath. When the world returned Will cradled his head in his hands, fingers pushing up below his glasses to rub at his eyes, the wipers groaning as they furiously swiped away the rain. A sob escaped him. It was a small but heavy sound.

Thoughts swirled inside his head flashing in rapid secession, visions of the man he loved, visions of blood and of terrible carnage, and somehow…it felt ordinary. It felt like memories he had lived.  Hannibal’s hands became his own, the knife he gripped felt balanced like it belonged to him, the same as his desire to see it buried in warm flesh. 

Will sucked a sharp breath in.

He had gotten out of the car and was standing half drowned in the rain, curls matted to his forehead, every part of his clothing soaked through. Shaking, he gritted his teeth and immediately regretted it as white stars pulsed to life in front of his eyes. He reached blindly inside his jacket pocket until his fingers met the side of a pill bottle. Still shaking, he fumbled at the lid until it opened with an abrupt pop. He watched helplessly as the last two tiny white pills vanished at his feet.

Will leaned back against the side of his car, the door still chiming at him to close it. He just stared blankly into the void, the aspirin washed away somewhere along the roadside and his pain settling heavy into his forehead. He slid down the length of his car until he was on the ground, palms flat in the cool mud.

 And he threw back his head, and he screamed.

***

As the evening dwindled away into night, Hannibal settled in front of his fireplace with a glass of wine and a good book, enjoying the first distant rumblings of thunder as the storm rolled in. It was the first real thunderstorm of the season, and with it came the promise of warmer weather as the rain fell in torrents soaking the winter starved earth. Hannibal had drawn open the curtains to watch it. He relished in the unbridled power of the storm, a natural event worthy of inspiring the fear of god, one that held no prejudices to whom it might conquer.  

He had closed his eyes as the storm tapped out its melody against the roof top. Wind billowed in the curtains like a sail in front of the open windows. The smell of humid earth filled his senses, and he found himself thinking of fresh mushrooms. He loved this time of year, there was still a chill in the air but not enough to freeze, and the atmosphere felt charged as if the very air was alive. Perhaps it was the wine, and if he was to admit it he _may_ have overindulged a bit, but he began to feel drowsy, his book falling open in his lap as the fire burned down to glowing embers, the white noise of the rain like a soft song to lull him to sleep.

It was a bit of a shock when his phone buzzed to life on the coffee table. With a roll of his shoulders Hannibal stretched and sat up, blinking at the phone as his vision cleared. His lips curved into a soft smile.

“Hello, Will.”

Hannibal’s voice held an air of delight at the knowledge that Will might stop by, for what other reason would he call so late? He found himself grinning. Blame it on the wine and the soothing patter of rain the as it fell. He stretched back into the arms of the chair and sighed, mind wandering to the things he would like to do if Will were there with him right now. He bit his bottom lip and shivered at the thought.

There was silence on the other end of the phone while Will tried to collect himself, tried to think of exactly what to say.

“You bastard…” Will growled into the phone, his anger rising through tears, the conflicting emotions making his head spin. “…you terrible lying bastard…”

The words were instantly sobering and they stung him, made him flinch. Hannibal paused to collect himself. He could make out the soft sounds of sobbing, muffled through the phone.

Hannibal’s expression faded; he felt the color drain from his face. He had been naive to assume he had more time with Will before the young empath uncovered the truth. He had worked tirelessly at building this relationship, had cultivated it, planting seeds of the truth along the way, always buried but never too deeply. And now it was all crashing down around him, in an instant like the click of a gun before it fires.

He had prepared for this, for Will’s awakening. It was always the inevitable outcome, and until now, the outcome that Hannibal thought he wanted. But he never counted on feeling this way, he never factored in how much Will’s words would might cut him and how deep.

“Will,” Hannibal’s voice was firm, resolute, “perhaps this conversation is better had in person.” 

Will had gathered himself up and had gotten back in the car, at least having enough self preservation to not stand in the rain any longer.  The sound of Hannibal’s voice, far away through the phone, pulled at him.

A small part of him had hoped that Hannibal would feign ignorance, would ask him why he was angry, would deny what he had done. His head throbbed as another flash of lightning lit up the sky, too bright, and then the resounding thunder, too loud. Currently he was unable to decide if he wanted to drop into Hannibal’s arms and be held until his headache subsided or put his hands around the man’s neck and squeeze the last breath from him. Somehow both seemed like a good idea.

“Will, are you still there?” Hannibal wasn’t hiding anything now, his defenses were down and his voice emotionally transparent. Will thought it sounded like panic.

 “Will?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

A pause while both men considered their next move. Will shivered in his wet clothes, his hair sticking to his face uncomfortably. The wiper blades beat heavily against the windshield filling the silence. Hannibal tried to slip back into his calm demeanor but the wine, his exhaustion, the sudden confrontation, it all fed into the panic that had settled in his chest and his voice wavered unsteadily.

“I want to see you.”

“To hell with what you want!” Will was talking too loud, his own voice like a knife through his skull. He threw the phone on the seat and beat his fists again the steering wheel sounding the horn until his hands were red and scuffed. Hannibal could hear some of it, could almost taste the hurt like a bitter herb on his tongue. It began to tear at him, ripping him open. Tears clouded his vision, made his words heavy, pleading.

“Please, Will…” He was begging, “…please…” Will could only hear it faintly from where the phone had fell, still glowing on the passenger seat. Hannibal’s voice, tainted with rare emotion, coaxed him to pick it back up.

“We have to talk,” Will said through gritted teeth, “and in person…only because I’m already halfway to your house.”

Somehow the words brought relief. Will had sought him out, and as far as he knew he wasn’t bringing the rest of the FBI with him. That alone was enough hope to cling to at the moment that perhaps all was not lost. Hannibal downed the rest of the wine that had settled in his glass.

The silver edge of a scalpel caught his eye just then, left out amongst the evening’s drawings. He reached for it, noting how its surface glinted in the waning firelight.

“For what it’s worth,” Hannibal said his voice still sounding wounded, his accent unusually heavy, the words drawn out, “I never wanted you to get hurt.”

Hannibal waited for a response, waited for anything. Anger, even cursing would have sufficed, but instead there was nothing as the phone flashed red and the call ended. He placed it gently down on the coffee table and poured the rest of the wine that had warmed in the decanter. He twirled the scalpel slowly in between his fingers and touched its pointed edge testing its razor sharpness, a tiny drop of crimson appearing on the tip of his finger. Hannibal sucked at it absently, the slight metallic taste alerting his senses, and he mused perhaps it was time to open a bottle of something stronger, a celebration of sorts for poor Will’s sudden awakening, an awakening that had the potential to destroy them both.  

Will had unceremoniously thrown his phone against the dash where it opened into pieces, the battery popping out and disappearing onto the floor. He was trying to slow his breathing but the migraine was in full force now, and it weighed on him almost as much as what he had to do. What he _should_ do. He took a deep unsteady breath before he pulled back out onto the road, tires spinning for a moment spraying mud in his wake.

***

An amber colored bottle of 30 year old whiskey had been cracked opened and was a few fingers lighter by the time Will pulled up to Hannibal’s home.

Hannibal had opened it delicately, gingerly peeling the red wax away as if he half expected the ghosts of his past to rise like mist from the bottle. He had savored the first glass, sipped at it slowly. He ran his fingers across the bottle and felt each letter of the word _Starka*_ emblazoned there above the crest of two intertwined serpents, and then, the name of a small Lithuanian village stamped on its brown paper label that had yellowed with age, burnt black around the edges.

Lecter couldn’t help but consider his young life when this particular bottle had rested inside its oak cask, its crystal clear hue gradually darkening until it became a deep golden. It was his humble beginnings; the faint smell of winter snow when it’s about to fall, the earthy scent of burning wood in a warm hearth, the soothing sweetness of fresh baked bread and honey, the tang of tears and the heady scent of warm blood. It had waited to be consumed, had waited for decades to be shared, just as he waited now, patiently and self aware. It had kept his secrets sealed inside all these years, and now, it begged to speak. Hannibal gazed into his glass as he swirled the liquid around slowly with a turn of his wrist, honey colored, sugary and viscous; warm as it coated his throat.

 It still whispered promises. It still waited.

A knock at the door and Hannibal’s eyes rose, and then, the click as the door was pushed open sounded in the entry way.

Hannibal held his breath, his face illuminated by a single light, throwing shadows across his angular features, making his eyes glow like embers. Familiar footsteps sounded in the hall and Will emerged finally, drenched and shivering in the doorway. Hannibal blinked up at him, only a small tell of his unease.

He sipped at his drink. He waited.

Will eyed the man across the table, and then the bottle. Not the usual bottle of merlot or pinot noir that he had become accustomed to seeing adorn Hannibal’s table, but something foreign and quite old by the looks of it. Had he picked this to pander to Will, another glimpse of Hannibal’s manipulative nature that he always seemed to disguise as graciousness?

Will heaved a heavy sigh as their eyes met, Will’s looking bloodshot and tired, Hannibal’s looking lonesome and, Will mused, just the slightest bit remorseful if that were possible. For a moment, Will expected to be scolded for not removing his muddy shoes, but Hannibal just stared up at him, his gaze heavy, coaxing Will to take a seat at his table.

Hannibal filled the second glass that had been set out for Will, and surprised them both when his hands trembled ever so slightly. Will took the glass wordlessly and drained it. It was refilled the moment he put it down. Hannibal topped off his own glass and they sat silently across from each other, neither one wanting to utter the first word, both content to ride out the calm before the storm as long as they could stand it.

“I bet this bottle cost more than my car,” Will mumbled before he took another sip.  Hannibal smirked, but there was no witty comeback this time, just sad red eyes that studied Will, tried to probe and pick him apart to discover his intentions.

The drink was warm and soothing. Will’s expression softened for a moment as he let himself enjoy it, breathing out a quiet and dejected sigh.

“It is not as expensive as it is old. I acquired it some years ago and kept it, saved it as a reminder, a remembrance of another lifetime.” Hannibal’s words were steady, slow and deliberate. “I think you and I were meant to share it, Will.”

Will took another sip, whiskey coating his throat, warmth radiating into his chest. The pain in his head was still present but had lessened by a few degrees as the effects of the alcohol calmed him. He stared into his drink and his reflection stared back at him, sad but resolute.

Will's eyes rose to meet Hannibal’s and he got lost again, locked somewhere in the few feet of charged space between them. Hannibal fingered the cool metal handle of the scalpel that he had concealed inside his sleeve, cautious but ready. He studied Will, watched for subtle changes in his demeanor; any tell that might give away his intent. It was apparent that Will was in pain; Hannibal could smell it on him, bitter and palpable. Will confirmed Hannibal’s suspicions when he squeezed his eyes shut, his head pulsing.

“You’re hurt...” Hannibal reached across the table, fingertips brushing the side of Will’s face. “Let me help.”

“Just…don’t…” Will’s reaction was sharp as he recoiled away from the touch. Hannibal slowly withdrew, his eyes lowering to his glass. “You have no right…” Will’s eyes lowered as well, tears brimming in them, hidden behind the reflection of his glasses.

Hannibal found he couldn’t control the tightness that welled up in his throat, the desire to take Will’s pain from him somehow, to comfort him, the sting of rejection as Will had pushed him away, the heartrending sadness that clawed at him when his touch was denied. Hannibal held his breath until the tension finally broke as Will looked up at him, anger lighting up his features.

“You _lied_ to me.”  Will almost choked on the words as if they didn’t want to be spoken, as if saying them out loud released demons into the room, and made the intangible suddenly real. He pushed his glasses up revealing eyes that were glassy with pain and hardened with accusations. His stomach burned and twisted uncomfortably beneath the flat palm that he had rested there. The betrayal itself was dizzying and sickening. Hannibal stiffened. He was too still, his expression carved in stone.

“I did.”

The words hung in the room like a fog. Hannibal rose from his chair, an arm steadying him against the table as his vision wavered for a movement. There was no more time for vague answers, no more games to be played.

Will was finally face to face with the truth in all its terrible glory. There was no denial, and really, had he ever for a second believed there would be? Somehow, the fact that Hannibal had kept this from him was far worse then what he had actually done. The betrayal was harder to bare and that fact ate away at Will, made him question his own morality. But as they stood only a few feet apart, Hannibal’s breath coming a little too fast as he tried to regain his composure and Will, taking in the sight of him, proud but almost desperate, it was as if everything had been building to this one moment, as if the truth was an inevitable conclusion from the day they first met.

Will’s head throbbed, the one light in the room too much, too bright, and Hannibal standing there, unsteady and drunk, his eyes like daggers, boring a hole into Will’s skin. It made him look away.

Hannibal made his way around to Will, who was again cradling his head in his hands. He stopped in front of him, and for a moment he drank in his wretchedness as if he could taste it, as if he could swallow it and hold it inside himself. It was a tangible agonizing sadness and it brought Hannibal to his knees, his breath catching in his throat as he dropped down in front of Will, not gracefully at all, emotion manifesting in his face. His head swam and Hannibal swallowed hard, his composure completely broken.

Will wouldn’t look at him, _couldn’t_ look at him, not now, not after the truth had been ripped open and revealed, ugly and exquisite in front of his eyes. His attention turned inward, inside his aching head and his racing mind, and he was only vaguely aware when Hannibal rested his head on Will’s lap, his skin whisky-warmed.

 “Can you forgive me?”

Will’s hands found their way into Hannibal’s hair then, bitter tears trailing down both sides of his face, drops landing on Hannibal’s upturned cheek.  The overwhelming urge to hold him, to accept his apology pulled at him, and yet the betrayal went too deep beneath his skin, stuck there like an indelible mark that marred its surface. He wished he could rip it out and stitch himself back up, be whole again before the truth had ruined him.

“I can’t.”

Will found the words cut like razors into the silence. Warm tears slid down his cheeks and gathered at the tip of his chin. Hannibal looked up at him, his cheeks ruddy, his eyes still dark and pleading.

“That is your choice,” Hannibal said, his words soft and slightly slurred. “But is that the choice you made tonight, when you decided to drive here alone--”

“Don’t you fuckin’ pull that psychiatrist shit with me,” Will snapped feeling his face begin to burn, “Don’t try to pretend you know what’s in my head--”

Hannibal’s arms were around him then, face pressed tightly against Wills stomach. Will resisted, beat his fists against Hannibal’s back hard enough to leave bruises. Hannibal just took it, held him tighter, let him struggle, until the ache in Will’s head forced him to stop, until the weight of those arms around him made it feel like nothing had changed.

Hannibal pulled them both to the floor, Will curling like a crumpled mess into his arms, finally surrendering.

“Shhh...” Hannibal hushed, his breath warm against Will’s temple. He held him close. His hand soothed against the side of Will’s face, prompting him to close his eyes and relax against him. Both men were quiet for a moment, grateful for the touch of the other’s skin, finding comfort in the scent of the other’s clothes, and content to just breathe each other in.  

Will stirred as his fingertips met the cool edge of something metallic inside Lecter’s sleeve.

Hannibal closed his eyes as Will retrieved the instrument. His fingers constricted slowly around its handle as he gripped it in his fist.

“You were only half right,” Will said between the hitch of a sob. “I came here…alone…but not to forgive you. I came here…because I need this to end. There’s only one way for it to end, isn’t there?”

Will smiled as he pressed the scalpel’s edge to Hannibal’s throat. His hand trembled. A drop of deep red pooled near the tip of the blade as it pressed against tender flesh. Hannibal swallowed hard as he felt the bite of the blade against his skin.

“Then end it, Will,” He whispered his breath brushing against Will’s ear, tears staining his face, “Have your vengeance. I am at the mercy of your hand.”

Will locked eyes with him, the man that had become his lover, his protector, the man that he had trusted with all his darkest secrets, who trusted him now, finally, with his own. Hannibal’s eyes burned red, tears brimming in them. Will gritted his teeth and let the scalpel sink into flesh. His hand stilled when Hannibal shut his eyes and cringed against the pain.

“ _I hate you_.” The words came between clenched teeth. Will tossed the scalpel away and it slid across the floor out of reach.

Will gripped the back of Hannibal’s shirt in two tight fists and sobbed against his chest. Lecter was speaking shushes to him, fingers carding through rain soaked hair, his warm breath holding the bite of alcohol, a trickle of blood sliding down his neck and pooling in the valley of his collarbone.

“Don’t confuse hate with fear,” Hannibal whispered. “You needn’t fear the truth…unless it is still your intention to end my life. Is that still your intention Will?”

Will pulled him into a rough kiss, and Hannibal closed his eyes, felt his head swim. It was a violent meeting of lips and teeth and Hannibal felt as though it wouldn’t be the last time.

 “Can’t you just let me be mad at you? Can’t I just process my feelings like a normal fuckin’ person without you psychoanalyzing me? Jesus Christ, Hannibal,” Will sat back on his heels, his head reeling from the knowledge but mostly from the migraine that had only intensified.

“I’m sorry, Will.” Hannibal tipped up Will’s chin so he was forced to make eye contact. “I want your forgiveness, but I can only ask for it. It is yours alone to give.”

Will’s eyes flashed with anger. Hannibal touched the side of his face. The pain was too much, and as much as Will wanted to be angry, _needed_ to be angry, he couldn’t keep fighting. His mind was screaming at him to find a nice dark place to curl up and nurse his headache.

Hannibal, perhaps not as drunk as he had seemed, lifted Will to his feet and lead him to the familiar stairs that they had climbed so many times before. His vision blurred and Hannibal caught him around the waist when his next step faltered. As they slowly climbed, Will’s awareness of how cold he was in his rain soaked clothes finally registered and he shivered against the cold that had sank into his bones.

Inside Hannibal’s bathroom, Will kicked off his boots and they landed one at a time on the floor with a heavy thud. He shivered, his clothes sticking to him uncomfortably.

“You’re soaked through, “Hannibal said as he helped peel away the first layer, Will letting his coat be stripped off his shoulders. Then the shirt like a layer of skin, leaving Will exposed, goose bumps forming along his arms.

“It is raining out...one tends to get wet in the rain," Will mumbled with a little more sarcasm than Hannibal thought necessary.

“For someone as intelligent as yourself, I would hope you had enough sense to know when to come in from it,” Hannibal was close, a heavy hand laid delicately on Will’s shoulder."You're quite sick, Will."

"You don't get sick from being out in the rain. Common Dr. Lecter you know better than that," Will said his voice sounding agitated. "It’s just a migraine."

"Nevertheless you are ill. That fact remains," Hannibal said his voice a warm breathe across Wills cheek.

A soft towel roughed up Will’s hair and was draped across his back. He pulled it close around his trembling shoulders. Hannibal bent down so he could meet Will’s eyes for a moment and offered a neatly folded shirt.

“Here put this on.”

Will slipped the shirt over his head. It was surprisingly soft against his skin and it smelled vaguely like Hannibal, the aroma of him only dulled slightly by a trip through the wash. It was still there lingering underneath the light scent of fabric softener, feint but heady. Will took a deep breath.

As hard as he tried he couldn’t hate him. He hated the lies he had been lead to believe, but he couldn’t hate the man himself, the person who was procuring two questionable looking pills from a bottle in his medicine cabinet and filling a cup with water. He couldn’t hate him when he deposited the tiny white pills into Will’s palm and handed him the cup, his hand lingering as Will took it from him and swallowed the pills greedily. He couldn’t hate him as he led them back to the dimly lit bedroom; the room Will had always thought seemed like an empty museum, too pristine to be lived in.

Hannibal drew the curtains and clicked off the light on the nightstand before helping Will to sit amongst the plentiful sheets and blankets that had been pulled back for him. Will felt like he could be swallowed up by them as he laid back and closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the dark surround him.

“It really hurts,” he said sounding small, the cadence in his voice almost a laugh. It was the only words he could think to say. _Everythin_ g hurt. And there was no running from it; his body demanded the pain be felt.

“I want to help,” Hannibal had sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking under the weight of two men. Will’s stomach reeled from the sudden shift.

"Don’t need your help...just need to close my eyes...just for a minute..." Will managed his voice sounding frayed.

Hannibal rested a flat palm on the middle of Will’s back, heavy and protective, prompting Will to curl into the bend of Hannibal’s neck, his cheek making contact with warmed skin, his eyes level with a long line of already drying blood.

Will’s stomach turned as he changed position. A rather pathetic sound escaped his throat. Hannibal placed a gentle kiss to his temple, letting his lips linger there, breathing in the scent of Wills hair, smoky and acrid with sweat. Hands found their way into soft brown curls, fingers gently carding through. Will surrendered to the other's embrace, and for a moment they were both quiet, content to be still with each other.

"When's the last time you’ve slept?" Hannibal's voice was firm but quiet as if talking to a frightened child. The words washed over Will as he thought about the answer. When had he last slept, _really_ slept? There were times when he dozed off for a few minutes, snapping back awake to find he was still at his desk, police reports and grisly 8 by 10 glossy photos strewn on its surface. But actual sleep, in an actual bed? He couldn't recall.

"It doesn’t matter..." Will spoke into Hannibal's chest, his voice muffled. “This doesn’t change anything, you know. I still hate you.”

Hannibal brought the blanket up around Will’s shoulders. It was a tender and comforting gesture. He slowed his movements as to cause as little harm as possible. Anger still stuck in Will’s throat even when Hannibal began to rub his back through the blanket. His hands were heavy, slow and soothing.

"You can only go so long without sleep before your body will rebel against you. You must rest."

Will was listening vaguely, like Lecter's words were traveling through a dense sea of ether, subdued and distant. His stomach turned again as a fresh shot of pain pulsed through the side of his head. Will swallowed hard, another groan surfacing from him. He curled into Hannibal’s lap and tried to concentrate hard on not concentrating at all. He tried to stop the pain by sheer force of will, but his head swam with his own indecisiveness and stomach began to feel heavy. He should be calling Jack right now, confessing everything he knew, instead of lying in this man’s bed, instead of letting this happen. He should--

Hannibal pulled Will closer to him and his voice was a low whisper in the dark.

 “I'm so sorry, Will. Please know…that I do love you.”

Will didn’t respond. He was thinking about his rolling stomach, trying desperately not to get sick. He squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of nausea washed over him. He didn’t dare move. Hannibal felt him tense and then freeze still, his eyes clenched shut. He finally lost the battle and gagged harshly, dry heaving against Hannibal’s shoulder.

“I’m ok…” Will managed slurring the words. Hannibal delicately helped him to sit up and plant both his feet on the floor. A hand was at his back gently pushing him forward until Will had both hands on his thighs, eyes downcast at the space between his feet.  Hannibal’s hand settled at the base of Will’s neck, giving him a point of contact that was comforting.

The pressure in his stomach was too much and Will leaned forward to retch. A thin stream of vomit puddled onto the carpet, and Will was gasping for air, strings of saliva hanging from his chin.

"M'sorry..." Will managed as he cupped a hand to his mouth.

“It’s alright,” Hannibal whispered. “I’m right here with you.”   

Will leaned forward again, his stomach muscles contracting painfully. He gagged again forcing more searing liquid up his throat to pool onto Hannibal’s expensive bedroom carpet. Between gagging he gasped desperately to fill his lungs with air.

“Will…you need to breathe...”  Hannibal whispered, his voice low and calming. Will’s head seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart; the sound of his own blood thrummed heavily in his ears. It was a loud and sickening sound.

His vision narrowed and for a moment he thought he might black out. He was only vaguely aware of Hannibal leaning over him, a rather concerned if not curious look in his eyes.  Another heave caught him off guard and he vomited up a thin stream of alcohol mixed with bitter bile. It burned his throat, made him cough and choke.

"It's alright," Hannibal whispered, tenderly rubbing Will's back through the blanket. "It's alright. It will pass."

Will gagged again, stomach muscles burning, bringing up more watery vomit that splashed violently onto the floor, tiny droplets spraying back onto the blanket, a few splattering onto Hannibal’s white shirt.

Hannibal stayed close and quiet, his arm still at Will’s back as he spit and coughed, hands trembling, tears sliding down his cheeks. Will moaned in pain between the next heave. Hannibal noticed the last bit of vomit came out tinged pink with blood.

Will coughed again, spitting into the mess, his hands shaking as he tried to compose himself, strings of saliva still dangling from his chin. A few dry heaves shook him, and Hannibal could feel the muscles in Will’s back flutter and spasm as he succumbed to each one. Hannibal felt a knot forming in his throat every time Will let out another painful sounding gag. He rubbed Will’s back, tried to soothe him, tried to coax air back into his lungs.

When he felt it was finally safe to speak, Will’s throat felt raw.

 “That was…unexpected,” He said his breathe still quick, “Sorry about…your floor,”

“I’ve cleaned up worse,” Hannibal smirked before disappearing down the hall, leaving Will alone to ponder that comment until he returned with a glass of water and a damp cloth neatly folded over his arm.

Will opened his mouth to speak and Hannibal stopped him with a shush, pressing the cool glass into his hand. Carefully he removed Will’s glasses and folded them neatly setting them on the night stand. Will sipped at the water and then a long gulp before Hannibal took it from him.

“Your revenge is swift and exacting, Will Graham,” Hannibal cooed placing the cloth over Will’s eyes.

“Shut up,” Will mumbled, the washcloth feeling heavenly against his burning forehead. Hannibal smoothed away the tears that had slid done Will’s face with the pad of his thumb.

“If you think you can manage it, we can retire to the guest room. It’s just down the hall,” Hannibal found himself whispering, his demeanor turned gentle.

“I know where it is,” Will said, the tone in his voice sarcastic, maybe just the slightest bit defensive.

“Of course you do,” Hannibal soothed, a hand at Will’s back helping him to sit up. “If memory serves you insisted sleeping there the first time I asked you to stay the night.”

A huff from Will as Hannibal helped him up, skillfully dodging the mess on the floor.

“Well, you wouldn’t let me drive home,” Will said, steadying himself against Hannibal’s side.

“You were quite drunk,” Hannibal said his voice reminiscent. He snaked an arm around Will’s waist, fingers coming in contact with warm skin. Will stumbled and Hannibal caught his weight, lifting him back to his feet.

“I was perfectly fine to drive,” Will mumbled, as Hannibal led him down the dimly lit hall, walking slow enough that Will could keep his balance.

“Do you remember much about that night?” Hannibal asked his voice suddenly somber as he helped Will to sit on the edge of the guest bed. The room was dark and quiet. Will adjusted, burrowing under the silk comforter.

“It’s a bit of a blur actually,” Will said his voice quiet as he arched back into dense goose down pillows. Hannibal sat in the arm chair and stretched, his eyes heavy from fatigue.

“You wouldn’t sleep in my bed even though I had insisted,” he said pulling the blanket up under Will’s chin so that all that remained of him was his dark eyes and darker hair a halo against the white pillow case. “So I stayed here in this very uncomfortable chair to watch over you as you slept, or more accurately, as you dreamt.”

Will was silent. He remembered. He remembered waking to find Hannibal, eyes curious, tired, a hand reached out to him, a lifeline to reality as his mind had balanced on the edge of dreaming and waking. He remembered Hannibal finally climbing into bed with him halfway through the restless night, holding him until he stopped shaking.

Will reached out to him then, a gesture that made Hannibal’s heart beat quicken, and motioned for the other to slink into the bed beside him. Hannibal gladly readjusted the blankets to cover them both and curled up against Will, lips brushing the side of his face, his breath warm against Will’s cheek.

“You remember,” He said his voice only a breathe above a whisper. Will closed his eyes and the memory seemed to play out like a movie he had watched long ago.

“I do,” Will said his own voice lowered in an almost reverent tone, as if the past had become sacred now, the past before the truth had ruined him, the past where his own ignorance had been bliss.

The urge to fight had passed for Will. The bed was too comfortable, the feather soft sheets too plush, Hannibal’s caresses too soothing and warm, the dark encompassing them both. Getting sick, along with the ever present pressure in his head, had drained the fight out of him, made him search for comfort instead of vengeance, made him push his feelings of betrayal down far enough that he could simply lie with the man he loved so, if only for the night, if only until he felt well enough to open his eyes, to think clearly without the sharp spike that seemed to be lodged in his forehead.

Hannibal’s keen senses picked up on all of this. He readjusted alongside Will, his long legs stretching out the full length of him. Will was soon enough entangled in them, and Hannibal was lazily stroking fingers through Will’s damp hair, grazing the sides of his temples, every now and then pausing to massage them. The pressure felt wonderful, and for a brief moment the pain lessened.

“Mmm…that’s helping…” Will mumbled into Hannibal’s shirt. Hannibal placed a gentle kiss at his temple and pressed his thumb into the center of his forehead lingering there for a moment before moving to the ridges of his eyebrows, and back to his temples again. Whatever he was doing seemed to relieve the pain somewhat and Will sighed gratefully.

“Why…why can’t I just hate you?” Will’s voice was tired. He felt emotionally spent.

“Try to stay still,” Hannibal whispered his hands roaming around to the back of Will’s neck, fingers pressing on either side of his spine, “Just relax. Don’t talk. There will be plenty of time for us to discuss this later, when you are well again.”

Will obeyed, letting Lecter press into his tight shoulders and then work back up to his neck, around to the crescent of skin above his ears. The pain was still there but kept at bay my Hannibal’s skilled hands. Will felt himself begin to relax just a little, his body starting to feel heavy, tired. Hannibal kissed him again, his lips soft, gentle. He lingered by Will’s ear and spoke softly.

“I love you Will. Even if you decide that tomorrow you can’t bare it, even if you can never give me the forgiveness I desire, I will still love you. Even if you decide my life should end I--”

Will silenced him with a fingertips pressed to his lips. Hannibal’s eyes glowed like an animal’s in the dark and Will couldn’t help but connect with them. There was only one way he could break the bond that had formed silently between them. Even sick and tired he knew his mind wouldn’t change. He didn’t want it to change.

“I don’t want your life to end,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse from being sick. “Does that make me selfish?”

“Love is always selfish,” Hannibal said his voice soft, controlled. “but there is no rational reason why selfishness takes on the negative connotation. You don’t have to punish yourself for how you feel, Will. There is no need to mortify the flesh in order to gain forgiveness.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Will mumbled, settling against Hannibal’s prone form, face buried in his shirt, curls tickling him underneath his chin.

“Yet…you battle with your conscience,” Hannibal whispered, his voice low in the dark, “when _acceptance_ that it is a flawed and archaic school of thought would be freeing. It would be enlightening.”

Will huffed a heavy sigh.

 “You should be content that I no longer want to kill you,” he said the cadence in his voice upturned with sarcasm, “what’s left in my head after _that_ decision is my own business.”

“Fair enough.”

Hannibal closed his eyes. The feeling of Will against him, his body heavy with exhaustion was comforting. He savored the rare connection they shared. Yes, it was selfish, but he didn’t want to lose Will. He didn’t want to lose the things that Will had awoken in him, things Hannibal didn’t know he was capable of experiencing, like the overwhelming urge to watch over him as he began to drift into sleep, to protect him from harm or pain, to isolate him from those who might cause it. But more importantly, to have an equal, to bond so completely as to let his true self be seen; he thought being a bit possessive of that was well warranted.

He pulled Will closer, and held him as if he couldn’t get close enough.

Will was still in too much pain to sleep. His hands griped the back of Hannibal’s shirt. Even with an empty stomach he still felt vaguely nauseous. Hannibal’s touches were tender, soothing. He swallowed uneasily to think those lithe hands held the potential to be ruthless.

“You should try to sleep,” Hannibal soothed his voice deep, “and tomorrow will be easier.”

“I doubt that,” Will said his voice muffled.

“Why?”

“Because…I am not as enlightened as you,” Will’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“You sell yourself short,” Hannibal’s hands had wandered around to Will’s back, lightly touching each bend in his spine, fingers committing the curves and plains of smooth skin to memory.

“I mean it Hannibal,” Will said becoming serious, “I’m not who you think I am. I’ll never _be_ who you think I am.”

 “Perhaps,” he said his voice steady, “but I will still love you, regardless of your flaws.”

Will surrendered then. He let his sarcasm go, settling with his head on Hannibal’s chest, the rhythmic beat of his heart lulling him towards sleep.

“I believe you,” Will muttered feeling the heaviness of sleep pull at him.

The darkness masked the smile that curved across Hannibal's face, but Will didn't need to see it to sense the relief that swelled in the other's chest. As much as he hated to admit it, Hannibal had been right. The truth was freeing. And for the first time in a very long while, Will slept through the entire night without waking once.  

***

 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Starka* is a traditional drink made in Lithuania and is distilled until it is clear, similar to vodka, but from what I read it looks and tastes closer to whisky. Its amber color comes from the oak casks that it’s aged in along with linden and apple tree leaves. I thought it would be fitting that Lecter have a bottle of this stored away, a remnant from his past. 
> 
> The title of this piece comes from the psychological theory of the same name. It is the feeling of uncomfortable tension which comes from holding two conflicting thoughts in the mind at the same time, i.e. love and hate. As a result, the mind will always try to restore balance, to yield to one emotion or the other to create harmony.
> 
>    
> Thank you so much for reading <3 
> 
> As always your thoughts and comments are greatly appreciated. 
> 
> I'm also on tumblr  
> [jay-sop](http://jay-sop.tumblr.com)  
> [little-known-secret](http://little-known-secret.tumblr.com)


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